


Worship

by Adoxography



Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: M/M, PWP, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-05-06 05:59:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14635545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adoxography/pseuds/Adoxography
Summary: Life as an exorcist is never peaceful, but there are moments of calm that Marcus has learned over the years to hold dear. Likewise, he has learned that when he is granted any sort of comfort or luxury, it is a gift to be cherished. And when God has seen fit to put a beautiful man naked in a massive claw foot bathtub, a man who is asking Marcus to join him? Marcus is no fool; he knows better than to look that gift horse in the mouth, especially when the man in question is Tomas Ortega.No plot here, just exorcists getting it on in a bathtub.





	Worship

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at writing PWP so I hope it’s sexy? I have no idea guys. Bless my incredible beta Shell_and_Bone who edited this for me last night.

Life as an exorcist is never peaceful, but there are moments of calm that Marcus has learned over the years to hold dear. Likewise, he has learned that when he is granted any sort of comfort or luxury, it is a gift to be cherished. And when God has seen fit to put a beautiful man naked in a massive claw foot bathtub, a man who is asking Marcus to join him? Marcus is no fool; he knows better than to look that gift horse in the mouth, especially when the man in question is Tomas Ortega. 

They’d won a victory today, exorcising a demon from a woman who they’d thought for sure was going to integrate. Her family had insisted on putting them up in this hotel as their way of saying thanks. Both men had tried to refuse, but there was little they could say to prevent their gratitude and given they been sleeping on the family’s couch for the last week, they had few other options than to accept. This was the reason for the beautiful room in a converted early 20th century home with polished wood floors and the gorgeous bathtub in which Tomas is currently luxuriating. 

While Marcus is unsure this kind of gift is warranted, he has to admit it had been a difficult exorcism. This woman, Chantelle, had a set of acrylic nails that became rather sharp and ragged over the course of several weeks clawing at the walls and while Marcus had been able to mostly dodge them, Tomas had caught those claws this morning while the demon was in its final death throes. The long scratches start on his scalp, under his hair, and end just at his temple. They are shallow and should heal with time, but for the moment, they are red and drip pink water down Tomas’ cheek. 

Marcus’ wounds were more minor and mostly healed, some scratches on his wrists that will fade in time. They remind him unpleasantly of the scars from long ago, self inflicted ones he tries not to think about until he catches his shoulder in the mirror. He resolves to ignore them and wear long sleeves for the time being. 

“You’re still dressed,” Tomas complains, exhausted but grinning. He lays up to his chin in steaming water, wet hair slicked back. His stubble has grown long enough that it almost passes for a beard now. Marcus’ hair has always been too pale and sparse on his cheeks to ever grow a full beard, but the hair on his jawline is getting irritatingly long after two weeks of no shaving. 

“I’m enjoying the view,” says Marcus, leaning against the tiled counter. “You look like a painting.” 

“A painting. Really?” Tomas, Marcus has come to realize, is utterly oblivious to his own beauty. Any compliments directed towards his appearance tend to be brushed off or scoffed at. Marcus crouches so he can lean over the edge of the tub, trailing his fingers in the water. Tomas twists so he can kiss him, his face hot and damp with clean sweat. 

“Yes, really,” Marcus tells him, giving his cheek one final peck. “You’re like a Degas, though maybe not his colour palette, something a little deeper, more Baroque than Impressionist—“ 

“Be quiet and get in the bath,” Tomas interrupts with mock irritation. Marcus can see the corners of his lips fighting not to twitch into a smile. 

Marcus obliges, stripping off filthy clothes and leaving them in a pile on the floor. Marcus has never considered himself a particularly vain man, but it is hard not to feel inadequate when he compares his pale, aging flesh to Tomas’ toned body. He has always been skinny, sharp, and milk white; he’d freckled terribly as a young boy and had been teased mercilessly for it. Now the lines on his face cover any remnants of his childhood blemishes when he gets enough sun for freckling to be a risk. 

“Move forward,” he tells Tomas, stepping into the bath behind his partner. The position alleviates some of his insecurities. As he sits, the water rises dangerously high and his skin begins to turn pink and then red in the heat. 

Tomas leans back against him, head resting on his shoulder. He looks up at Marcus with a shy smile. “This is nice.” Marcus kisses his forehead and slides his long arms around him, water sloshing over the edge of the tub as he adjusts, the drain struggling to keep up with the sudden displacement. Tomas’ skin is as hot as the water, smooth and firm under his hands. 

“How’s your head?” Marcus asks, combing fingers through Tomas’ hair. He is careful to avoid the deep scratches that must sting as Tomas sweats in the steaming water. Tomas has beautiful hair, dark curls that are growing just a little too long, making him look roguish, a little less clean cut. He’ll need a trim soon, but for now Marcus is enjoying the feel of long damp hair running through his fingers.

“Better,” Tomas sighs with contentment. Marcus holds him closer; Tomas radiates heat and Marcus can feel it under his skin, warming him to the core. 

“Good.” Marcus leaves his lips pressed to the top of Tomas’ head, wet hair tickling his nose. 

“I feel silly though,” Tomas admits, sinking a little lower in the water. 

“Hm?” Marcus lets him slip down, and cannot help but focus on the hot slide of wet skin on skin. 

“It was a stupid mistake, letting her get that close, an amateur mistake,” Tomas mumbles, his mouth barely above the water. He’s sulking, and Marcus has to keep the amused smile from his lips so as not to patronize him. 

“Tomas, you  _ are  _ an amateur,” he replies, arms still tight around Tomas’ middle. Tomas’ knees are bent sharply to allow him to sink into the water up to his neck, the bath deep enough that only his shoulders and knees rest above the waterline. Tomas is no longer resting his head on Marcus’ shoulder, but he is bent forward and hunched. Marcus puts a hand on the back of his neck, rubbing it with his thumb. 

“You know you did extraordinarily well, don’t you?” 

Tomas shifts under his hand, ever so subtle. Marcus cannot tell if it is supposed to be a shrug, but he squeezes the back of his neck and then slides his hand down to Tomas’ shoulder. 

“You’re an exorcist, Tomas,” he tells him, pulling him back so he is once again leaning flush against Marcus’ chest. His body is a heavy weight on his lungs, making him take slow, deliberate breaths. “And a damn good one.” 

“And you’re a great one,” Tomas complains, but he is relaxed again, and smiling up at Marcus with that lovely mouth and those big brown eyes. He is so trusting, so eager, that Marcus is sure Tomas knows the effect he has on him, which is pressed hard against his partner’s lower back. 

“To be fair, I have about forty years practice on you,” Marcus teases. He runs his hands over Tomas’ arms and up his belly. He loves the way Tomas’ breath hitches, how he can feel it in his chest and under his fingers. 

“I’m serious. I need to be able to keep up,” Tomas insists. “I need to pull my own weight.” 

“Tomas…” Marcus chides, lips pressed to the skin above his ear. “You don’t honestly believe you’re a burden?” 

He can feel Tomas deflate, his body sagging in the water. “No, I suppose not.” He sounds… disappointed? He frowns, craning his neck so he can peer down at Tomas’ face. His partner’s eyes are closed, teeth pressing into his lips, pinching them shut, his brows are drawn together. Pink water collects near his hairline, sweat and water mixing with blood. Marcus wipes it away, trying to smooth Tomas’ furrowed brow. 

“You saved a life today,” Marcus assures him. “I told you before, you have a knack for this sort of thing.” 

“Do I?” Tomas asks in a quiet voice. It is a needy thing, and all at once, he knows what Tomas wants. 

“Tomas, you are a marvel,” he says, pressing his mouth against Tomas’ ear so his words will not go unheard. “God set you on this path for a reason. It’s not just a knack; it’s a gift.” 

Tomas is already breathing hard, his chest rising and falling under Marcus’ hands, his whole body rigid. 

“Marcus I—“ 

“Hush,” he tells him, pulling his hand back so he can smooth hair from Tomas’ brow, his other hand stroking long lines up Tomas’ side, over his stomach and his chest. Tomas is not indifferent to his words or his touch; his interest is apparent and Marcus can see his growing arousal from over his shoulder.

Marcus is sure that he is taking advantage of some sort of deep childhood trauma, loneliness, neglect, but it has nothing on the pain that Tomas unknowingly exploits every time he touches Marcus with his gentle hands. In the end, aren’t they both just God’s fucked up children, desperate for whatever love they can lay their hands on? Love… yes, Marcus will love him in any way Tomas wants, any way he needs.

Tomas’ neck is salty with clean sweat, hot and rich on his tongue. Marcus doesn’t deserve such fine things. He can feel Tomas’ heart race when he presses his lips to his jugular. He wants to bite him. 

“You’re incredible,” Marcus tells him. Tomas shudders with pleasure at the hot breath on his cheek. 

Marcus reaches around to put a hand on Tomas’ thigh, a question. He waits for permission. Tomas is breathing so hard, his panting echoes in the small bathroom. 

“Please.” Tomas’ voice is small, barely above a whisper. Marcus can hear the shame and soothes it with kisses, his hands in Tomas’ beautiful, thick hair, down the line of his throat. 

Marcus touches him, takes him in his hands and says, “You are so good, Tomas.” Tomas does not reply, only gasps and writhes on top of him. “You are a blessing, a miraculous thing.” He means it, too, he does, but if Tomas thinks it’s part of a game, he will let him. He’s showing too much of his hand already. 

Tomas isn’t loud, but this close it doesn’t matter. He can feel every gasp, every groan vibrating through their bodies. He moves faster, pressing himself hard against Tomas’ back. In turn, Tomas slides against him, slippery with sweat and slick with bath water. “God made you perfect,” Marcus tells him, though his voice is barely above a whisper. He dearly hopes that Tomas is oblivious to his sincerity. 

Tomas sits upright and for a moment, Marcus is afraid he’s said the wrong thing and that Tomas is about to leave. But all he does is turn himself around so he can face Marcus, bathwater sloshing over the edges of the tub as he crushes their mouths together, lining his body up so he can press himself hard against Marcus’ thigh. 

They are making a mess, water splashing on the tiles below, and the only sound louder than their groans of pleasure are the noises Tomas’ wet skin makes as his hands try to keep purchase on the edge of the bathtub. 

“Oh God, Marcus!” Tomas shudders, his mouth slack. Marcus is ready for him when he collapses into his arms, his body heavy and hot. Marcus’ skin throbs with heat and arousal. Tomas reaches between then to touch him and Marcus almost pushes his hand away, self-conscious, embarrassed, but stops as his fingers find Tomas’ wrist. 

“You don’t have to,” he still insists. He can’t look directly at Tomas without heat rushing to his face. With the way his blood throbs under his skin, it makes him lightheaded. 

“I want to,” Tomas says, kissing the corner of his mouth. “You don’t think I want you?” 

“I—“ It is his turn to feel like a fumbling child, desperate for praise. Tomas touches him with such care. His kisses have tenderness he never thought he would receive. 

“I think you’re very handsome,” Tomas promises him, kissing him firmly, teeth teasing his bottom lip, “ _...muy guapo.”  _

Marcus gazes up at the dark face above him, those deep brown eyes cast in shadow by the overhead light. “Would you be offended if I told you you were beautiful?” 

Tomas’ touch is no less careful, but they are starting to move harder against one another. Tomas’ cheek is pressed against his shoulder, his mouth on Marcus’ neck. Marcus tries and fails not to be conscious of his body’s age and all the places where it is most obvious. 

“As long as you are with me,” Tomas says, “you can call me whatever you like.” 

Marcus lets himself go for a few wonderful, blissful seconds. He cries Tomas’ name and clings to his shoulders, fingers digging into the hard muscle of his back. 

The water is going cold by the time they think to move. Their hands have wrinkled and their skin has gone sticky with cooled sweat. They quickly rinse and Tomas gets out first, helping Marcus to his feet like the gentleman Marcus is sure he was raised to be. They wrap themselves in soft white towels and dry their bruised and battered bodies. 

Marcus takes Tomas to bed, but only to sleep. They are too exhausted for much else and Marcus is too old for a repeat performance so soon regardless. Still, they lay naked under the sheets, legs touching, hands touching. Marcus gazes at Tomas who gazes back with those beautiful brown eyes. 

“You said,” Marcus starts, then is forced to clear his throat and start again. “You said I could call you anything, as long as we were together.” 

“I meant it exactly how it sounded,” Tomas assures him, his thumb stroking Marcus’ knuckles.   
Marcus feels his lips curl up into a slow, sleepy smile. He sighs, heavy and contented. He raises Tomas’ hand to his lips so he can kiss his knuckles, too tired to fumble for his lips. “Alright. Then goodnight,” he says, barely able to keep his eyes open anymore, “my love.” 


End file.
